


Missionary Positions

by allcanadiangirl (andchimeras), BJ Garrett (andchimeras)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-21
Updated: 2002-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/allcanadiangirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/BJ%20Garrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Ann's hand rests, a fire burns and she is not consumed (Exo 3:2). Written for the 2002 Wing Swing challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missionary Positions

When she was twelve, she had a vision.

When she was twelve, she was baptised in the First Church of the Pentecostal Revelation in Omaha, Nebraska. It was full-body immersion in a white cotton nightshirt with six other twelve-year-olds.

As her head broke the surface of the lake, eyes blinking bleach-scented water away, lips already wide for hallelujah, the sunlight spangled through her eyelashes into six-pointed stars and there he was.

Our Lord and Saviour stood above her on the water, and she could see his ankles criss-crossed with the leather straps of his sandals. She could see the gold-tipped hairs on his toes and on his legs. She could kiss his feet as she tread water on Sunday, June 14, 1974.

She could see up Jesus' robe, too, and she looked.

Jesus had a vagina.

She thinks in the cab from LAX that this city may be the New Babylon Mickey always says it is. It's possible. Look at all the Jews here, in exile even from themselves. They call it Diaspora now; they've grown used to it.

The hotel is done up in red, white, and blue, the colour trinity, and her hand feels more alive than the rest of her body has ever felt, wrapped around the handle of her rolling suitcase. Her fingertips tap the thick plastic in anticipation. She picks up her nametag--it's not really needed, everyone knows her, if not through her husband, then through her own work--and goes with a volunteer to the check-in desk.

"Mary," Ann says, touching her free arm. "I'm so glad you could make it." Where Ann's hand rests, a fire burns, and she is not consumed (Exo 3:2).

She smiles without meeting Ann's eyes, suddenly shy, says she's glad too, takes her key, moves to the elevators. The assistant drags her suitcase.

"Mary," Ann calls. "I'll see you later."

She raises her left hand over her shoulder, flicks the fingers like goodbye, hoping her wedding ring catches some light and shines with righteousness (Psa 97:11).

In Ann's room, the lights are dim and the conversation is bitter.

She was on the show for debate and the salvation of her country. Maybe dance a little with the famous Josh Lyman (Pro 17:28). She was not there for her family to be insulted. She was not there to be humiliated.

He treated it like it was a joke. Tax fraud, ha ha. He knew Mickey was being investigated--the White House probably started the whole thing. Tax fraud, indeed. He knew, and he said it and pretended it was a joke.

"If you ask me," Ann says, "you were too nice. You should've pummelled his ass. I would have. You want a drink?"

First Samuel, chapter one, verse fifteen.

"Suit yourself," Ann says. "What happened at the White House?"

Of course she hadn't meant it like that, but it took her so long to figure out what he was suggesting that when she finally got it, she had nothing in her but shock. No indignation, no anger, no fear at what the accusation might mean. Even if she'd been prepared to respond to that, how could she admit she'd never considered anti-Semitism?

This is her role, after all. Cold, self-righteous, prejudiced. Maybe a bit of polite bigotry, veiled references to treasured cultural stereotypes. He knew, sitting there all hunched over, expecting it of her, all civil rights affirmative action pro-choice welfare state class-consciousness insensitive assuming--

"Yeah," Ann says. "Toby's like that."

She'd meant New York. As in the place. As in, sophisticated and well educated and glittering, apart from normal America. She hadn't meant 'den of Jewry and its foul conspiracy.'

"My boss would have laughed," Ann says, and her voice is thick with cynicism.

Ann sits across from her, glass in hand. The bed is against the opposite wall, in the periphery of their vision, and she thinks of the velvety dark of Jesus' crotch in her vision, the slightly curled ends of his pubic hair, the smooth curve of his mons, the hushed sacred softness that beckoned there.

She doesn't know why she's here, if she's following the call of her Lord (Isa 6:8), or if she's slipping down a path of sin. Or if any of that even matters here. She tangles her fingers together as Ann leans forward.

"You're always so cold," Ann says, chafing her hands. "Have a brandy."

Ann has been drinking. She leans in, smells the alcoholic sweetness on the other woman's breath, remembers tin flasks under the bleachers in the football field, remembers Mickey's hands under her blouse, under her skirt, remembers saying yes, her tongue made loose by strong drink (Pro 23:32).

Her lips are under Ann's chin, and she wants very much to press them up into the hollow, blood pulsing frantic as sin.

"Kiss me, Mary. Please," Ann says, her voice despairing, hopeless, full of alcohol.

It's not supposed to happen like that. The call, when it comes, is supposed to be powerful, cajoling, full of temptation.

She ministers (Jer 17:14), her mouth on Ann's jaw, not knowing if it's the same with a woman, or if there are different rules--no rules at all as Ann pulls her up, lifts her up, grabs her by the ears and brings her into that burning brandy taste running over her gums, looping her tongue, pushing back into her throat (Isa 29:9).

She doesn't know what to do with her hands, but it feels good to lay them across Ann's shoulders, so she leaves them and kneels on the couch, straddling Ann's lap, hanging her head within reach, not wanting to tease.

It's got to be quick, and they both know that at least.

The shield falls unexpectedly from Ann's neck as they grapple (Gen. 32:25) in a room, any room, an anonymous plain of thistles and satin-shaded lamps. It's a surprise, and it shouldn't be. She should have known.

Temptation, when you least expect it, will show up in the arms of the Chosen People who have turned *away* from God Almighty. She should have thought of that. That's a good one. Mickey would like that, and she doesn't want to think about Mickey, so she goes back into Ann.

And if she can imagine negesh, if she can imagine not, if she can imagine a perfect being when she is a weak and sinful human, then she can certainly imagine the sameness of Ann's hands, Ann's hips, Ann's legs running all together into a brilliantly hot core of mirror-bright recognition.

She knows the sound, that sound. She has made it herself, pressed it back in her throat, and swallowed it, taught herself never to make it again. She knows. She knows.

She knows she is lost, but she can't help it. She has to push her legs wider and curve her shoulders into the bed, hard, mouth open, arms spread, hands open, reaching, reaching--

Nailed to the cross of lust, Ann lamenting above her, pulling her thighs, pressing forward, upward.

Every stroke creates another depth inside her; she opens into caverns of red and blue, draped in hot wet silk, looming stalagmites, jagged swords guarding Eden. Pinches of pain as nails scrape too deep, too enthusiastic. Glimpses of perfection as fingertips brush, twist, tangle. She can't separate the good from the bad for fear it will all stop. Don't stop.

"No. Never," Ann says.

She comes.

She is weak. A fool. A damned sinning fool. She's not going to let go next time. She's going to keep it penned inside her, a sacrificial lamb to my Lord God Almighty Jesus Christ Ann!

Again.

Next time. Next time.

She won't let her do this next time.

"Oh, God," Ann says, embracing her legs and hanging her own head between her knees.

She clenches her fingers into the coverlet, closes her mouth on the hallelujah, trying not to cry.

"You should have more meetings with Republicans," Ann says as she picks up the star where it sparks on the floor beside the bed, her lips bare and white-lined. "We're fond of you people."

Yes. The chain is long enough to hide the star deep in the cleft of her breasts (each a fruit of knowledge, and that valley leads to damnation).

The meek shall inherit the earth, so sayeth the Lord. Amen. The weak shall be thrown into the fiery abyss, so sayeth her pastor, her husband, the hand of her Saviour, the Reverend Mickey Marsh. Amen.

Her hands are so warm as they button her shirt, tuck it into her skirt, straighten the wrinkles in her stockings, pull on her suit jacket and button that in turn. Looking in the silver-framed mirror across from the bed, she sees a glint of gold at her collar, remembers the small, fragile cross with a shadow of Christ etched into it.

Mickey putting it around her neck, kissing the top of her head as she knelt before him. He pulled her up into the light of salvation, into the glory of God's love, into the absolution of marriage (Gen 3:16), into covenant. Into a four-story church just south of Arlington, into writing the advice column of their monthly newsletter, into guest spots on NPR, on Christian Voice of America, and she was received by the Reverend Al Caldwell into the fold of activism and into television.

And she was a good sheep, as far as she went (Psa 119:176).

"I'll see you at the dinner, then," Ann says, freshening her drink, voice dismissive.

She presses her fingers against her mouth, ashamed, guilty, knowing this sin can never be wiped away, it is too great. And would a true Christian want her sin absolved like that? No. A true Christian would want. A true Christian.

A true Christian would never have looked under Jesus' robe in the first place.

She makes no reply to Ann, stumbling out into the hall. In the gold-mirrored elevator, she covers her eyes and tries to pray, but her lips fumble the words between Ann's lips, her heart is beating too fast for God to touch it while Ann crouches between her legs, the doors open and the brilliance of the brass-infested lobby flares into her vision.

Jesus stands above the heads of the milling conventioneers, naked, arms open, light pouring from his covered genitalia.

She can't stand it, she falls first to her knees, hands clawed in supplication, then to one hip, and then she is on her back, and the spirit hovers above her (Psa 51:1).

End.


End file.
